A silent night.
It was the Christmas of 1914 and Arthur Kirkland was spending it in the snowy trenches of Ypres.
All that was heard by the young Private were the tossing and turnings accompanied with the occasional sneezes and coughs of the other deranged volunteer snipers for the night. He couldn't blame them, he was one of those soldiers as well. Each one of them had something to prove, most aiming for a chance to receive a gong* to show off or for a shot with a girl that caught their eye back home.
For Arthur, it was both. He had to show, beyond doubt to his insufferable older brothers, along with his over protective parents that the 17 year old 'baby' of the family could do something better than any of the others could - and war was a perfect way to do that.
As for the second reason, it was because of Alfred F. Jones. Idiotic, hyperactive and annoyingly lovable Alfred F. Jones. And, as cliché as it sounded, Arthur's heart skipped a beat whenever the American boy's name was said, heard or even thought.
He had met the other boy about a month before he was enlisted into the army. Alfred was his neighbour, who had just emigrated from Washington D.C to Arthur's little English town, only to later return to America the day England joined the war. Or as Arthur would refer to it as : the day he fell in love.
It was funny how things worked out between the two. Arthur was in a terrible mood the day they met, after being thrown off the football team for not being good enough for the rest of the players. He took a particular disliking to the manner of Alfred's speech and the ridiculous nicknames he called him - "Artie", "Art", and the most memorable one yet, his "little unicorn". The nicknamed spawned after Alfred found out about Arthur's childish habit of collecting stuffed toys, his most loved one being a tattered pink unicorn with stuffing coming out and horn sewn back onto the toy's head multiple times.
It only took a month of pouting, bad jokes and surprise hugs for the American to finally wear away the Brit's hard exterior.
A chuckle escaped the Brit's lips. He would have given anything to be back with his parents, two of his brothers, Mr. Pinky the unicorn and Alfred. Back when his feet weren't starting to get badly frostbitten and disease ridden, back when he didn't have a use for a sniper, back when Alfred would stay the night at his house and the two would eat sweets and play board games until dawn broke out in the east, back when there was a good chance of him being alive the next day...
Now his only family in the trenches were the rats and his oldest brother Scott.
Speak of the devil, Scott appeared around the corner, his orangey-red hair uncombed and blackened in multiple places. He handed to Arthur a mug of warm tea, instantly warming the teen's frozen fingers.
"Thanks Scott," he whispered, giving his brother a small smile.
"No problem," he answered, a trace of a Scottish accent in his voice. Scott, as the oldest of the four brothers had gone to work in Scotland a year before all the fighting started. He had returned to England and joined the war of his own will after Arthur did to make sure his youngest brother doesn't die...or do something worse.
Arthur savoured the hot liquid on his tongue. The cup was cooling fast, and as much as Arthur disliked cold tea, he didn't want to finish the drink too quickly.
"It's funny how we're doing all this for two Austrian royals killed in Serbia," Scott laughed, settling down in the snow next to Arthur. "I barely even know where Serbia is!"
Arthur wiped the remains of the liquid off his lips. "It's in Eastern Europe," Arthur muttered solemnly before taking another sip.
There was an octave of silence before Scott turned to his younger brother, his usual carefree expression replaced by grim, bloodshot eyes, side effect of months of harsh training, tears and bloodshed "Why did you join the war, Arthur?"
"Why did you change the topic, Scott?"
"The night you told us you enlisted, mum cried" Scott said, his eyes slowly turning a duller shade of green, "why didn't you stay at home with Dylan and Colin? Why would you do this, Arthur Kirkland? Why?"
"I have my reasons," Arthur spat, "one being this blonde pigtailed girl who stuck a chicken feather* up my nose when she saw me and tossed it off as an excuse when I told her I was 17. She made an officer show me to the enrollment office and once I was there, I told the officer sitting at the counter that I was underaged, but he didn't believe me either!" Arthur was holding back tears, his voice a pitch higher than it normally was.
"In fact, he told me to go outside and come back in to tell him what my 'real' age was!" Arthur said all that in two breaths and he slumped down onto the wall of the trenches, sucking in a deep breath of air.
"That's sti- do you hear that?"
Arthur's eyes narrowed, "hear what?"
"Singing! Someone's singing."
The two sat in silence as both tried to make out the faint tune around them. It got louder each second, the tune becoming more familiar as the singers grew louder.
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Alles schläft; einsam wacht
The words were unknown to the two boys but years of caroling on Christmas Eves as children resulted in an instant recognition of Silent Night.
"It's the Germans! They're singing," a shout came from someone near the brothers. A few murmurs spread through the rest of the soldiers and some of the younger, more daring ones peered over the trenches to get a clearer look.
The German's side of the icy field were dotted with small specks of light as their voices filled the war site. Some even left the trenches with their hands up as they took in their wounded soldiers.
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar. Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar, Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!
The Brits started to copy them. Cautiously getting out of the trenches and pulling their friends or family back into the trenches with them. Their movements got faster and faster as more soldiers on both sides started getting out, and soon, most of the army were out on "No man's Land".
"Scott, where are you going?" Arthur asked as his brother left his side to go back to where he was usually stationed.
"I need to get something."
Shaking his head, Arthur kept watch as the area where so many died started filling up with soldiers, both German and British. Christmas trees sent to them for the holidays were placed around the wars of the trenches and a light snow fell around them creating a Christmasy feeling, something Arthur never expected to feel during the war.
We were meant to be home by now.
"Hey Tommy*! You play football?"
Arthur turned around to come face to face with a grinning red eyed German. His hair was a extremely light shade of blonde, to the point it was almost white. Behind him was a younger, more stoic looking man with calm blue eyes and hair falling out of his messily slicked back hair, most likely done with snow. The albino man held up a well packed ball of snow.
"It doesn't last too long so don't go whacking it into people's faces,"
"It won't last at all" Scott commented, raising his eyebrows "but this might."
He threw a tattered, semi deflated football at Arthur, who fumbled as he caught it.
"How did you smuggle this in?" Arthur asked, recognizing it as his own, "and why would you?"
"I had a feeling we'd need it, without any...other distractions " Scott winked, "now who're those German buddies of yours?"
"They're not my -"
"I'm Gilbert, and I'm Prussian not German, my step-brother over there, Ludwig, is German," Gilbert said, sticking out his hand.
"Scott, and that's Arthur." Scott replied, accepting the handshake. "For two Fritzs'* your English isn't bad."
"We were taught as kids. Our dad used to live in London but he went back to Germany saying that the Brits can't cook."
As Scott and Gilbert went into a heated argument about which country cooked better, Arthur took the ball and went over to Ludwig who sat on the ground looking at a crumpled photograph of another boy. The person in the photo had light brown hair, a stray curl dangling out of his head and a smile rivaling Alfred's.
"Who's that?"
Ludwig didn't jump nor did he show any sign of shock. He simply answered Arthur, face to the ground.
"A friend."
"I see. What's his name?" Arthur disliked prying into other people's life but making conversation was the closest he's gotten to getting his old life back.
"Feliciano."
"Italian?"
"Yes."
The single word answers Ludwig was giving Arthur told him that Feliciano wasn't a topic that Ludwig wanted to talk about and they sat next to each other, a football separating the two.
"Do you like football?" Arthur asked, and after receiving a slight nod from the German, Arthur picked up the ball and put two bottle caps a few yards from each other.
"That's your goal, and here's mine," he announced, before kicking the ball past Ludwig. Smiling his first true smile in four months, Ludwig quickly shed off his heavy winter coat to run after Arthur who was getting dangerously close to his goal.
.-.-.-.
The two lay on the snow, panting after a short game of football, won easily by Ludwig.
"Not bad," Arthur laughed, sitting up.
"Thanks," Ludwig acknowledged the compliment with a rare smile. "I used to be the star player back home."
"I was kicked off the team because I wasn't good enough."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"It's fine. I didn't like the team anyway. Any team with a Frog can't be any good."
Ludwig was about to ask Arthur what he meant by 'Frog' when Gilbert pulled him away. "Come on, we've got extra rations today, don't want to miss out," he said as they left Arthur alone in the snow.
.-.-.-.
Arthur positioned his hands in front of him, mentally trying to capture the scene with his fingers. The laughter and smiling faces on the war torn individuals from both sides of the battle melded into a painting of happiness against the soft blanket of crisp, cold snow.
It was pure, absolute perfection.
Merry Christmas.
.-.-.-.
The fic was based on the short animated film The War Game. It's nearly 30 minutes long and you can watch it here : /watch?v=Z4_51Xbl9Ts
*gong - British military slang for medal.
chicken feathers were given out by British women to men whom they saw were not wearing a uniform at the time of the war.
Tommy was a nickname given to British soldiers by German soldiers
Fritz was a nickname given to German soldiers by British soldiers
The OCs -
Scott- Scotland
Dylan - Wales
Colin - Ireland